Home
by CountessButternut
Summary: All Mrs. Evans wanted in the world was for her daughters to come home. **Read "A State of Normalcy" first and save yourself some confusion**


Mrs. Evans knew her days were numbered. Just as she had watched her husband's lungs fail him, she felt something withering away in her chest—quivering and irregular—but she doubted any skilled doctor would find her out.

She shivered underneath her own mother's quilt, her hands shaking as she dropped another lump of sugar into her tea cup. The hearth did not roar as it did in years past; it was cold and dark. Mrs. Evans did not have the strength to chop the wood rotting against the back of the house. In fact, she had virtually abandoned her backyard.

Aside from Mrs. Evans, the house was empty.

In brighter days, her house had always seemed too crowded. There'd be her husband in his great booming voice, and his presence would fill up any room effortlessly. Then there'd be her daughters, always running about, somehow managing to cause more trouble than the neighborhood boys. Well—her _younger _daughter was the one with the wild streak; the elder had always _tried _to keep her in line, but then she would be unable to help herself. Still, those days had been filled with laughter and optimism.

Then, something shifted.

Her daughters stopped being the sisters they had once been.

Lily—her baby girl—was a witch. She could pull out a wand, and with a few funny words, she could do just about anything. Petunia—her first daughter—was not. She would go about her life as everyone else that Mrs. Evans knew. There was nothing wrong with either life, but for some reason, it became lost to the two of them. Their worlds rapidly pushed away from one another.

The mood in the house darkened, and there was less laughter, more space. Mrs. Evans didn't know what to do. Every time she reached for her daughters, she found she could only have one.

She didn't want to choose. She couldn't.

(And so she lost something that she could never have back.)

Lily—she didn't know where Lily was going. She didn't understand Lily's world anymore than she had understood her husband's politics. There was a war, somewhere, and Lily was fighting in it. She didn't like it. But what could she do? Mrs. Evans had always been a simple housewife; she hadn't even properly graduated high school. Lily was far too deep into her world, and Mrs. Evans would never be able to get her daughter out. She lived on another plane.

She was about to start her own family, from the sound of it. Mrs. Evans wasn't sure. Lily's last letter had come about four weeks prior.

Petunia had run off and married, too. She had removed herself from her sister as much as possible, and it hurt Mrs. Evans that she had tried to deny she had a sister at all. She had a nice house and a nice lawn, and her husband had a nice job; everything about Petunia's life was so painfully _plain_. It was on purpose, Mrs. Evans knew, because Petunia had always been that stubborn. She had always been that forceful, just like her father—she would _never _go down without a fight. And once she was fighting, she would never give up.

_Ever_.

Petunia had called a few nights ago, but the conversation had lasted ten minutes.

(Once Mrs. Evans mentioned Lily's name, the receiver had _clicked _on the other end.)

What had happened to the little girls that had giggled themselves into fits late at night? What had happened to the girls who had spied on the neighborhood boys? What had happened to the girls who pretended they were princesses, and marched around in all of their mother's Sunday dresses?

What had happened to the girls who fell asleep together, burrowed at one end of the bed, whenever a thunderstorm rattled the windows?

(_"It's just a storm, Lily. It won't hurt you."_)

Some time ago, one of the neighboring housewives had sent Mrs. Evans a beautiful, embroidered wall-hanging. It was still over the mantle, slightly yellowed after so many years:

_Home is where the heart is._

Mrs. Evans stared at it for a long time, her eyes drifting to the old pictures below it. In them, her flowers beamed down on her, sometimes arm-in-arm, sometimes in matching outfits, sometimes looking like they were up to no good—

She would have rather scolded her girls for dousing the neighborhood boys with the hose than walk into the voluminous void two young women made sure was increasing every day.

And yet, all Mrs. Evans wanted in the world was for her daughters to come home.

* * *

Mrs. Dursley loved being Mrs. Dursley. It meant, on holidays such as this one, her house was full of warmth and noise and people, even if it meant there was a lot of cleaning up afterward.

(No matter; her mother-in-law always seemed happy to help.)

She leaned against her husband on the couch, his arm wrapped snugly around her. On her other side was her half-sister, Mrs. Neff, and her husband; on another sofa that sat perpendicular to her husband were the Potters and their younger son. The Potter's oldest son and the Neff's two boys—all about the same age—were moving about animatedly, much to everyone's delight. Her own son was in the midst of it, with a lopsided sort of grin.

Her daughter and the Potter's daughter had taken off somewhere. In fact, she didn't really know where her mother-in-law was, either. She was going to leave it for a while, but they would be serving out the dessert soon enough—and she _knew _how her daughter loved the chocolate cream pie. She would be absolutely devastated if she missed it, and eyeing the male population present—Mrs. Dursley didn't doubt that was a possibility.

She took her leave once her husband started something up about the Ministry. Mr. Neff and Mr. Potter jumped right in, but she was already climbing the staircase, their voices fading behind her.

Walking down the hall, she heard soft voices from out of her daughter's room. The door stood ajar, and for a moment, she only stood there, looking on at the scene.

Her mother-in-law sat between her daughter and the Potter's girl, holding open a very old album. Mrs. Dursley could not remember seeing the likes of it before; _Evans _was written on the bind. She smiled to herself; her daughter looked remarkably like her mother-in-law. She supposed that was what she was seeing—proof from all those years ago.

The Potter's girl was not blonde or as lanky as the other two. She was about twelve or thirteen, and was obviously a tomboy whereas they were the definitions of ladylike and proper. Her hair was a flaming red and she was freckled with blazing, brown eyes. Something about her was definitely mischievous, but that probably came from having to deal with two older brothers on a regular basis.

Still, the Potter's girl seemed the most excited at seeing the album. She would point eagerly at something, and then her mother-in-law would offer some sort of explanation.

"Ah, yes, I remember that," the older woman said softly. "My mother took us to London for my tenth birthday, because I had always nagged her about seeing it…yes, Lorraine?"

Mrs. Dursley pushed the door open further on her cue. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she offered to them apologetically, "but I figured you would never forgive me if I didn't tell you we were serving dessert before the boys got in there."

The Potter's girl leapt off the bed, but thought twice about running for the door; she watched as the Dursley women slid off easily, brushing off their dresses as if to straighten them.

Her mother-in-law walked past the girls to walk with Mrs. Dursley; the girls hung back, talking about whatever it was that young girls in those days talked about.

"You look like you've been hit over the head with a frying pan," her mother-in-law mumbled. "What are you so happy about, Lorraine?"

"Oh, nothing, Petunia," she practically hummed in response, opening the kitchen door. The girls were making their way down the stairs behind them. "I'm just glad everybody's home."


End file.
